


The Privilege of Being Yours

by Earthiana



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Charles in a Wheelchair, Charles-centric, Erik is a Sweetheart, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Logan is a good friend, M/M, Mind Sex, Post Beach Divorce, Protective Erik, Smut, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthiana/pseuds/Earthiana
Summary: Charles has been dealing poorly with the aftermath of Cuba, but how will things change when Erik returns? Charles body is not the same, but Erik's love is burning bright, if only Charles could see it.





	The Privilege of Being Yours

“Lovely.”

In the scape of Charles’ mind, a wispy, lonesome figure stands before him. As his picture formulates, a carpet covers the expanse of the room. A bed.

“Indeed.” Charles whispers his reply. “Erik, I’ve missed you.”

And how his heart has truly ached over the past few months. The small issue of his legs was becoming troublesome and Charles – Charles just wanted to walk again.

So here, in his mind, he stands in his bedroom, finding that Erik’s mind (however far away it might be) has let itself in.

“Likewise.” Erik’s eyes trace over him and Charles already feels naked.

The beach left him raw. Weak. And then Erik left him on the sand, crying and trying not to because _he can’t feel his legs_.

“You look well.” Erik comments but this isn’t the time for pleasantries.

Charles strides towards Erik. In a way, he can feel his legs in this mindscape. Not in a sensational way, but he can control them and weave them to his liking. Like a puppeteer.

Charles and Erik crash together, their mouths meeting in a sweet but rushed reunion. Longing in both of their hearts. Erik’s hands move under his shirt, ripping off buttons and tearing the fabric to get to Charles’ body.

He misses this. He misses the touch of Erik. The desperation and want Erik had for his body.

And, as he leaves his mindscape, he remembers that Erik will never harbour that want for him again. Not with this new, broken body.

“Charles?” Hank asks, lowering Charles’ leg onto the soft mat.

“H’m?” Xavier comes to attention, his eyes drifting towards the doctor. “Sorry, Hank.”

“Should we stop?” The doctor asks. The exercises are supposed to keep up his muscle mass but Charles’ legs are already thinner, weaker. His skeleton is showing.

“I think I’ll retire for the night.” Charles pushes his back up gingerly, pain blossoming around the wound in his lower back. Only the upper half, like a crescent moon.

He grabs his chair, pulling it towards him. The floor transfer is considerably more difficult than a bed transfer so he’s hesitant in positioning himself. Hank stands nearly, ready to assist if needed. The twisting motion is simple but ducking his head feels unnatural. He manages onto the seat this time but at an odd angle.

It’s easily fixed and Hank follows as he wheels himself from the room.

“You’re going to bed?” He asks. “It’s barely midday.”

“A nap.” Charles claims, turning into the lounge briefly for a bottle of scotch, his mother’s favourite, he recalls. He settles it in his hap and continues, once more, along the hall.

_“This isn’t good, he’s sleeping too often.” _Hank’s thoughts reach him in a stab of pain to his forehead. He looks up at Hank briefly before making a strangled kind of laugh.__

“I’m tired, Hank, is all.” Charles deflects. He turns the wheels faster, hoping Hank will leave him alone to his thoughts. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Hank nods, stops in the hall.

Charles reaches his room which, admittedly is a state when he enters it but he doesn’t have the heart to tidy up. Instead he transfers onto the bed, still clothed, and positions himself somewhat in the middle.

“Goodnight, Charles.” He murmurs to himself, placing the glass bottle to his lips for several seconds before leaving it on his bedside table.

He closes his eyes.

  


Charles awakens with an aching head.

Alex and Sean are outside the door to his room, mumbling loud enough for him to hear.

_“Should we get Hank? Shit, seeing him like this…”_

_“This isn’t good, what if he’s having a spasm? We should probably wake him.”_

Charles rubs his forehead. He props himself up with the pillows on his bed, lifts the decanter at his side and drinks a hearty swig before wiping his face.

He’s been screaming, then. The nightmares are bad but, sometimes, he sends them out as projections. That’s never good for the ego.

“Leave me alone.” He says immediately when Hank walks into the room, closing the door on Sean and Alex.

“They’re concerned about you.” Hank says, sitting on the edge of his bed. He eyes the decanter as Charles brings it to his lips.

“Get out, Hank, I mean it.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper, cracked and broken.

“Charles—” Hank starts but Xavier brings his index and middle finger to his temple.

“ **Get out.** ” He commands, tears streaming down his cheeks. He squeezes his eyes shut until he can hear his door shutting.

How could he do this to Hank? How could he abuse his powers with the one person trying to help him? Hank is his friend, and yet…

What has he become?

  


When Charles’ connection had suddenly cut off last night before any kind of excitement, Erik was immediately worried. Charles is the best telepath he knows, surely he would have given warning, unless…

And that’s how Erik came to the conclusion that Charles must be ill or injured. Either way, nothing would stop him from seeing the man.

Except the annoying doctor.

“He doesn’t want any visitors!” Hank snaps at him. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Erik raises an eyebrow before reaching out with his ability. He moulds a hat stand into metal rings that bind Hank and press him against the wall.

“Is he in his room, then?” Erik hums, a metal canister following him obediently.

He takes to the stairs quickly because he really doesn’t want to see Havok or Banshee. Not that he can’t fight them, just that he doesn’t want to.

Hurting mutants is not his prerogative, but it’s occasionally a necessary evil.

Charles’ bedroom is hidden in the south wing of the mansion, but he makes his way through the maze of hallways to the old door he remembers so well.

He knocks first because he might be barging in but he has _manners_.

Charles doesn’t answer so he enters, anyway, after ensuring his helmet is settled comfortably on his head.

Erik looks around at the state Charles has been living in. His clothes hold dominion over the floor, while glass bottles dominate the raised surfaces. The room has a distinct lived-in smell that, admittedly, is unpleasant. Erik swipes his hand, the drapes pulling away from the window. The lock rolls back, opening the window up for fresh air.

“Hank, I told you to leave me alone!” Charles hisses from the en suite, voice full of venom.

That’s unusual, Erik notes. Charles isn’t the type to get angry.

Erik lifts a bottle of what smells like whiskey ad replaces it with the canister. Charles has _clearly_ been drinking enough so he pours the amber liquid out of the open window, watching it splash over the cobbles below.

“God, damn it, Hank!” Charles shouts. “Get out!”

Charles’ voice steadily gets closer and Erik turns. However, the sight that meets him is completely unexpected.

Charles is in a wheelchair.

He’s wearing blue underwear because it’s his favourite colour. Erik recalls a tangent he once explained thoroughly about how Charles thought he wore too much blue. Erik had made the suggestion as a joke but, alas, the next night he was cosied up in their bed, blue boxers and all.

Below the underwear, his legs are thinner than ever. Sticks, bones, whatever they might be called. They’re thin and unmoving.

“Erik.” Charles says as a sigh, somewhat tired. He raises his head, tucks his greasy hair behind one ear. Smiling without amusement, he speaks up. “You’re not supposed to be here, Old Friend.”

“Friend.” Erik corrects. “Charles, you’re…”

“In a wheelchair, yes.” He acknowledges. “I’d like to move into my bed, if you’d care to leave.”

His eyes are looking anywhere but at Erik’s. How could they ever face him? His friend, his lover. All of that will change the moment he meets those beautiful eyes and finds the disappointment that’s sure to come.

Their meetings in Charles’ mind had been sensuous, loving. Nothing had changed, despite their distance.

But Charles can’t walk. He can’t _feel his legs_ and now Erik knows.

“It’s 3PM.” Erik tells him lamely. He feels incredibly hopeless. This is his fault. His ideal, his realpolitik methods of grabbing for power. He hurt Charles, one thing he promised himself that he would never do.

He hurt _Charles_.

“I brought coffee.” Erik says, walks closer to the chair, but slowly. As if approaching a timid animal. “You should have some.”

“Erik, leave.” Charles wipes a hand over his face, eyes bright under wet lashes.

Erik kneels in front of the chair, holds the wheels still when Charles makes an attempt to move away. He looks up at the man, the man he loves, and reaches for his face, wiping away the hot tears staining his cheeks.

“I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
